


The Note

by lyrical_sky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyrical_sky/pseuds/lyrical_sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=115869847#t115869847">this</a> prompt at the sherlockbbc-fic meme: John is the only person kept in the dark about Sherlock being alive. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and the others actually know that Sherlock's death is fake. They also know that only John has no idea about it. And for three years, even when they see John living in depression every day, no one tells him the truth. When Sherlock is back again and John realizes that all this time, everyone but him actually knew about Sherlock being alive, his heart breaks completely. He feels betrayed. They were his friends, he trusted them, but they lied to him. John doesn't think he can be around them anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Note

 

 

 

 

 

**The Note**

 

 

  
  
22 July 2014: _Incoming text to Sherlock Holmes from John Watson, video file attached_.  
  
A sharp intake of breath and the attachment is opened.  
  
The video is grainy, revealing the image of John, with the camera's focus solely on him from the chest up. Behind him is a blank background; no clues as to the location of where this was filmed can be gleaned.  
  
Onscreen, John nods and begins:  
   
"I wasn't going to leave a note but I changed my mind. _You_ left a note. Why shouldn't I?" He smiles. "I gave you everything I had, so I'll give you this too." He shrugs. "Why not?"  
  
He pauses for a second then continues. "I guess I'll start at the beginning. Or at least the beginning of the end, so to speak," he says with a mocking grin.  
  
"When I got invalided from Afghanistan, I hit rock bottom." He laughs, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "Or so I'd thought at the time." His eyes open and he looks straight into the camera. "I've always wondered if you knew, if you'd deduced what I did after I was sent back to London. Did you?" he asks, staring at the camera.  
  
"I'm sure you must have, but I'll tell you anyway. Every day I would take out my gun, load it with one bullet and then go through what became my daily ritual. I would hold the gun in my hand, feeling its weight, relishing that brief moment of comfort at the thought of the salvation it would bring, and then I'd ask myself the following questions: Is there anything left? Is there even a shred of hope? Is it time now?  
  
I had done my duty, one I accepted gratefully, happily, and with all my heart. There are so many paths a person can take, but for me, there was never any question. I wanted to devote my life to helping others - as a doctor, a soldier, a brother in arms, a friend. Then in a flash, with one single gunshot to my shoulder, everything that I was and everything that I had to give got taken away. Just like that, in a snap, I was done in. Finished. I no longer had any purpose. I was useless, an empty shell. I was nothing. At that time, getting invalided from the army and simultaneously getting stripped of my ability to be a surgeon was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. At that time I didn't think it was possible to feel anything worse than what I felt. I was wrong.  
  
You know what happened then, what changed and turned everything around. I met you. With you, I found a new life. I was happy again. I had a purpose." He gazes intently at the camera, his mouth twisting into a sad grin. "Those were good times, weren't they? The best. It might have all been a lie and just a game to you, but it wasn't for me. It was real. It was... amazing." His voice cracks on the last word, and he looks away, taking a moment to compose himself.  
  
"And then... it all got taken away, when you jumped off the roof at Bart's. I hit rock bottom again. Or so I'd thought." He laughs again, his eyes now glistening with tears. "Losing you was worse than getting invalided from the army, worse than losing my ability to be a surgeon, worse than anything I could ever have imagined. So, the daily ritual started up again. But this time it took longer and longer for me to make the choice to endure and live another day. But I did. Always the soldier. I kept on going, even though I didn't want to. As I'm sure you know, I fell apart, pretty spectacularly. And everyone watched. Were _you_ watching, Sherlock? Did it feed your bottomless pit of an ego, watching me suffer, knowing it was because of you? Did you enjoy it?"  
  
A tear makes its way down his cheek, and he brushes it away with a shaking hand. "Did it give you a cheap thrill, knowing how completely you could destroy me? I wonder, did you and Mycroft laugh at my pain, thinking me pathetic for having a fucking heart and giving into sentiment? Such a dirty word, _sentiment_ , to you and your brother. I must have disgusted you. Or maybe it just amused you. I guess I'll never know, will I? I'll never know why you chose me, of all people, to play this game with. I'll never understand how you did it. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly... how did you get them to play along? And Moriarty. Was that even real, or was he just another extension of your game, another player? Doesn't matter, really. Not anymore. What's done is done. What's the point of trying to understand the whys or hows of what you all did to me?  
  
So here it is. Keep your eyes fixed on _me_ now, Sherlock. Will you do that for me? Just this once? Can you manage it, just this once, to do what _I_ want?" He leans forward, getting closer and closer to the camera until his face takes up the entire frame.  
  
"I hope you had fun making a fool out of me. I hope it kept you entertained, because god forbid you should ever be _bored_. I have left you one final puzzle, one you will never solve. I hope it keeps you up at night. I hope it haunts you, knowing I've managed to outwit you this one time. You will never find my body. Ever. I've made sure of it. It took me a while but I finally figured out how to do this, and you'll never know. You'll _never_ know.  
  
That's it then. Just one last thing, Sherlock." He smiles grimly at the camera.  
  
"Game over."  
  
The camera is abruptly turned away in the opposite direction, to face a blank white wall, and seconds later all that's heard is the sound of a single gunshot and a body falling to the ground.

 

  
  
  
The funeral is small. All the players are there: Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. They all look shocked and broken, Sherlock most of all. And then there's Harry. She's sober, for once. She stands apart from the rest of them, her arms wrapped around herself. Despite the fact that John's body was never found, a casket is being lowered into the ground.

 

  
  
A thousand miles away, John watches the footage on a huge screen set up for his viewing pleasure. "It's a fucking travesty," he says to his companion. "The only one who cares is Harry. She shouldn't be there. She shouldn't have to be there with them, grieving for real, when it's their fault this happened. It's _sick_."  
  
"Johnny, sweetheart, I _keep telling_ you but you refuse to listen. It wasn't a game. Sherlock was just being Sherlock, and he messed up. He made a lot of mistakes because he was out of his depth and he didn't know how to handle caring about someone the way he cared about you. But believe me, he _cared_. He loved you. He still does. _Look_ at him. Look at his face. Look at all of them. They all cared. They didn't know it would turn out like this. They're all grieving for real."  
  
"Yes, you keep telling me that. It's probably even true. But it doesn't matter. Not anymore. The damage is too deep for me to ever go back. And anyway, why would I want to? I'm right where I want to be."  
  
Jim snuggles up to him contentedly. "I might be as fucked up as Sherlock when it comes to emotions but I learn from my mistakes. I'm right where I want to be too," he whispers. "It's where I should have been all along, from the start."  
  
"We're here now," John says, leaning in for a kiss. "The past is done. John Watson is dead. James Moriarty is dead." He switches off the footage from the funeral. "And now we start over."  
  
"A fresh slate," Jim says, his voice soft. He gazes at John, his eyes sparkling. He's so different now.  
  
John smiles. "A fresh slate," he agrees. "A new life."  
  
"The life we were meant to have. You and me, Johnny, together," Jim says, taking John's hand and intertwining their fingers. "Just the two of us."

 

 


End file.
